


Ash Amidst the Graves

by Tharasian



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Adventure, At the same time, Attempts to Balance Idealism and Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Integrating DLCs, Multiple Unkindled, Other, Platonic Relationships, Possible Character Death, Possible Good End, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Evils of Aldrich and Sulyvahn, Theories About Canon, attempt at fluff, possible future relationships, some angst probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26505613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tharasian/pseuds/Tharasian
Summary: The Age of Fire fades, and the world nears collapse. The King of Lothric has disappeared, concerned more with seeking godhood than ruling his realm. The Prince has defied the world and all in it, refusing to link the First Flame. The Lords of Cinder abandon their thrones, and a desperate last resort is brought forth: the Unkindled, nameless Undead unfit to link the Flame, are summoned by the tolling of the bells to stave off the coming Dark.From four graves, four Unkindled rise from ash to seek the embers. Linked Flame or grand betrayal, all may rest upon their shoulders.
Relationships: Anri of Astora & Ashen One, Ashen One & Fire Keeper (Dark Souls), Ashen One & Various
Kudos: 2





	1. The Herald

Darkness.

Darkness and the feeling of dust in his throat.

He could feel weight bearing down, pressing in on him as though the darkness itself had become solid. He didn’t dare open his eyes, knowing that it would only expose them to the weight above. If only his mouth had not been opened enough for the dust to fill his mouth and creep towards his lungs.

All of these things flashed through his mind in the first moments of his new wakeful state. Why he had awakened there, he had no idea.

The weight and dark and the taste of ash on his tongue drove him into panic, and he hurriedly tried to claw his way out of the darkness. The weight around him gave way with surprising ease, and it wasn’t long before his hand escaped the imprisonment into which he seemed to have been confined. The first sense of open air was enough to send his pulse racing, and he dug out of the dust with increased fervor. 

The light that greeted him was faded and pale, but still welcomed. At least until he realized his mouth was still full of the dust. Doubling over as his lungs struggled to expel the invading particles, he coughed until his throat was raw and his eyes watered. As he caught his breath, leaning with his elbows on the edge of his prison, he blinked away the tears and looked around. His eyes widened as he saw multitudes of grave markers, piled high as though the cemetery they had graced was compressed into a space many times smaller than it had originally been. It was also this moment that he realized what he had been buried in - what he had just expelled from his body.

Ashes. 

He took in another deep breath to calm his nerves from the previous burst of adrenaline, cursing as the action brought another cloud of ash into his lungs. Holding his breath, he pulled himself out of the soft, crumbling ash in which he had been interred, only to realize that it seemed quite literal. The ash he had just escaped was collapsing into the shape of a grave. 

“By the Flame, where in the gods’ names am I?” 

His name was Milorad, and he was once of Mirrah.

Grimacing at the bleak surroundings, he looked himself over, noting with some satisfaction that his armor seemed intact, though the cloak and tabard were stained slightly grey. The cuirass and helm weren’t much, but a little armor was better than none. Most importantly, his talisman was still hanging from his belt.

Muttering under his breath, he took a cautious step forward, only to hear his boot strike something hard just beneath the ash. Leaning down, he brushed away the dust, revealing a simple kite shield and what appeared to be the haft of his spear. 

“Saints be praised for small miracles.” He shook his head, fastening the shield to his arm and pulling the spear free of the ground. Looking around, his face tightened as he took in the bleak grey sky. “A lot has changed, hasn’t it….” Sighing, he strode forward, passing between the piles of graves. The headstones seemed to form ragged, ruined walls along the path he followed, many of them so worn that he could no longer discern any names they may have displayed, if they had at all.

The wind filled his ears as he followed the narrow footpath, interrupted only by the soft clink of his armor or the rustling of his cloak. Each footfall kicked up a small cloud of ash, and softened his steps to a whisper. 

The silence was so maddening that the first person he saw was immediately thought to be a blessing from some merciful Saint or god. They were hunched before one of the graves, clad in a ragged black cloak. It was only as he raised his hand and prepared to greet them that he remembered his journeys from before. All the mindless undead that had appeared to be in prayer or contemplation until one came near. Shifting his grip on the spear, he breathed out slowly.

“Hello?” Raising his shield slightly, he was immediately rewarded for his caution. The cloaked figure’s head whirled ‘round at a speed that would injure any living thing, revealing sunken sockets and skin drawn tightly across the skull. A broken straight sword was in its hand, and it screamed at him. Rushing onward, it raised its shattered weapon in preparation for a strike.

Milorad backed away, raising his shield and readying his spear. The hollow leapt forward, bringing the hilt down against his shield with a resounding clang and recoiling from the force of its attack being repulsed. Seizing the opportunity, he thrust his spear forward, burying the head in the hollow’s neck and rendering it limp as it finally met true death. Frowning, he shook his spear free of the wretched corpse, stepping around it before continuing onward. 

There was no point in mourning one when there were countless thousands that would just as quickly bar his way, wherever it may lead next.

Sliding down a short slope and kicking up another cloud of ash, Milorad felt his gaze catch onto the shadow of a tower in the distance, and he felt drawn towards it. For a moment, he was distracted by the sight so greatly that he almost stepped on a pair of green glass bottles. The click of the glass was enough to shake him from his stupor, and he grinned as he realized what he had found: estus flasks, enchanted to capture the liquid flame and heal the undead. Though one looked a little more blue than he remembered.

Shaking his head, he fastened the flasks to his belt, silently praying for a bonfire to appear nearby so that he could fill them - the chances were slim, but one of those low-burning manifestations of the First Flame would be welcome for many reasons.

Sighing, he readied his weaponry again, advancing slightly and passing into a wider space, though it too was ringed by piles of headstones. At the far end, he could see more of the cloaked hollows, hunched before a statue so worn that its subject was indecipherable. Resting his spear against the top of his shield, he slowly advanced. 

And then an arrow struck his shoulder; a piercing sting that left his arm feeling slightly numb from the impact alone. 

His cry was more out of surprise than anything, though he would be lying if he claimed that the pain wasn’t a factor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another cloaked hollow with a shortbow just down another branching route from the wider area, but he was forced to focus on the group that was bearing down on him.

As he backed away, hoping to use his previous path’s narrow space to force the enemy into a chokepoint, he heard the sounds of combat from some short distance to his right. 

“Saints and Flames, please let that be some deliverer…” He gritted his teeth as the first hollow’s axe collided with his shield, and he let out a battle-cry of his own as he thrust his spear, not trusting providence to be so kind.


	2. The Knight

Signy of Astora did not ask for much in life. 

Her homeland did not give much in the way of wishes granted, after all. Astora was a land in the process of collapse even when her parents were young. The ancient glories were a fading memory, kept alive by stories and the stubborn survival of the ideals and hopes that defined the Lords of legend. Most asked for naught but bread to eat, clothes on their back, and a roof to shield them from the elements. 

Perhaps that’s why Astora was still the birthplace of true heroes; why the knighthood persevered and survived against all odds. 

She had been born a mere peasant, not expecting any grand destiny. She had risen to knighthood, becoming one of the idols of hope that lit the way for the rest of Astora to follow. And then she set out to stave off the encroaching Dark, and she burned.

And she was not strong enough.

In hindsight, she remembered little of the Flame’s flickering tongues against her flesh or how long she burned before being reduced to ash. Perhaps it was a mercy. 

But it seemed that even as ash, her journey wasn’t over.

Wrenching her sword free of the corpse of one of the hollows that had attempted to swarm her, she wondered if this new life was a second chance or simply a joke. The grey, twisting paths and pale sun left her wondering if this was some bleak afterlife. The only reason she believed that this was indeed the world of the living was her certainty that hollows did not exist in the next world. The string of withered corpses that lay behind her was, to her, proof of this not being some illusion.

Lips drawn tight beneath her helmet, she scanned the area for any potential ambush. The weapons the hollows had brought to bear against her had thus far proven ineffective, but the element of surprise could change their rate of success. The wind battered the side of her helm, causing an echo in her ears as her steps took her further into the maze-like cemetery. 

A groan behind her barely reached her ears over the whistling of the wind, and she spun on her heel, bringing her shield up just in time to block a hollow’s spear. The shambling creature recoiled from the impact, staggering as it attempted to recover. Signy brought her sword down on its head, ending any hope of that with what she considered satisfying finality.

“Gods above, can you please give me some sort of sign?” She scowled skyward, her eyes narrowing. “Because I’m rather lost here. I need something to work with!”

There was a long moment of stillness, disturbed only by the wind and her breath. Her scowl deepened, and she considered the merits of continuing her tirade at the heavens, but was interrupted by a faint sound. Focusing on it, she made out the noise of battle. She blinked before nodding.

“Much obliged.” She took in a breath before following the clashes of steel.

Her feet carried her more quickly with each step as the noises grew louder, and she barely paid attention to the handful of hollows she cut down along the way. The wind rushed in her ears as her instincts carried her onward, and as she stumbled to a halt at the edge of a wide clearing amidst the endless piles of graves, she saw the source of the commotion: a man in the light plate and white cloak of a Herald of White, standing alone against some dozen hollows with only his shield and spear saving him from being overwhelmed. 

As she readied herself to intervene, he impaled one of the mindless undead and threw it at the others, giving himself a temporary partial reprieve. Gritting her teeth, she threw herself forward, knowing full well that the odds were against him.

Her sword bit into the back of one of the hollows, a gurgling noise escaping the creature’s throat as it fell. For a short moment, the herald’s face displayed shock at her appearance, but he quickly masked it as he finished off a second shambling corpse. 

Gripping her sword with two hands, Signy tore into the remaining undead, striking one’s head from its shoulders in a single blow. A second swing cut down another, and she could see the herald making slightly more progress now that he was not fighting alone. The walking corpses were not so strong that two able fighters could be overwhelmed.

The battle was not long, but it blended together in her mind, the hollows quickly falling under their combined attacks. The silence that followed was interrupted only by their breathing, and the herald sat on an exposed coffin with a huff.

“Many thanks, friend. And well met.” He smiled wryly at her, pulling his talisman from his belt and resting his spear beside him. Grunting, he pulled an arrow from his shoulder. “Your skill with a blade was quite welcome, though that much is probably obvious.” 

“You did seem to be in a spot of trouble there, yes.” Signy watched as he lifted his talisman, the simple cloth token glowing softly as a minor healing miracle enveloped his person. “‘S not surprising, though. A spear’s not the best weapon against groups like that.” Sheathing her sword, she raised her helmet’s visor and rested one hand on her hip.

“Don’t remind me.” He grimaced. “I’m not used to fighting alone, unfortunately. Last I remember I… was still waiting for a traveling companion. I’d grown too used to a friend being nearby, it seems.” He glanced around. “And the shock of our surroundings did not help.” Turning back to her, he glanced over her armor. “You’re somewhat better armed, as well.”

“Well, you’re a herald.” Signy shrugged. “Aren’t you supposed to hang back and throw the gods’ judgement around?” He barked out a laugh.

“Oh, hardly. I’m no cleric. Frankly, I’m barely more than a blessed member of the laity, handed a simple miracle and a suit of light armor to protect me.” He grinned. “But I gave a good showing back when, even if that last bunch seemed to show otherwise. Give me a few moments and I should be far more… acclimated, I suppose.” He paused. “So, did you hear the bells too?”

“I did. Woke up in a coffin. Not an easy thing, shoving a stone block off so I could even breathe.”

“I don’t know if that’s better or worse.” The herald frowned. “Choking on ash the moment I awoke was unpleasant, but given my last memories I might have faced the confinement somewhat less gracefully.”

“I don’t envy you.”

“The feeling is mutual, then.”

Signy’s lip twitched. She had a decent sense for people, she thought. Her instincts had been with her almost all her life, and only rarely had she been led astray by them. The herald felt like someone she could at least work with, if not trust. And of course she would be glad for some company.

“Seems that way.” She held out her hand. “Signy, knight of Astora.”

“Ah, yes. Where are my manners?” The herald took her hand, giving a firm shake. “Milorad, herald of White, from the kingdom of Mirrah.”

“Mirrah? How did you ever get anywhere in Mirrah if you couldn’t even hold your own against superior numbers?” Signy grinned as Milorad’s expression soured. 

“Caitha’s tears, if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times: just because we’re known for the knightly orders does not mean that we’re all trained to fight with the skill of ten men from the time we can walk!” He shook his head. “My sister was the knight of the family, anyway. I was almost a cleric tending to the waters of the holy spring.” Standing, he rolled his shoulder before picking up his spear. “That was cut short when I was stricken with the Curse, but you likely know that feeling.”

“All too well.” Signy nodded, frowning. She scanned the area, her frown deepening as she saw a seemingly endless sea of graves, except for where they ended at a steep cliff.

“So, any idea where we’re supposed to go?” Milorad followed her gaze across the bleak landscape, shrugging. “I only just woke up, and frankly this is not the most organized place from what little I’ve seen.”

“I saw a bell-tower of some sort when I woke up. I was heading there.” Signy shut her visor, drawing her sword again. “I know the direction I was following to get there, too. Might as well see if there’s anyone there. You know: bells, bell-tower….” Milorad hummed, nodding. 

“Best option I can think of.” He hefted his spear and brought up his shield towards the only path neither of them had come from. “Care to lead the way?”

“Only if you promise to keep me patched up with that healing of yours.”

“I think I can do that.”


End file.
